


Untitled

by Korrigan131



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27728612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korrigan131/pseuds/Korrigan131
Summary: Being chairman of the drivers' association isn’t glamorous, and if Rubens thinks about it, honestly, it’s not much more than a so-called honour for the oldest driver on the grid.2009 season centric, with bonus!epilogue.
Relationships: Rubens Barrichello/Jaime Alguersuari
Kudos: 3





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2012. Unbetaed.
> 
> NB: Rubens was actually appointed Chairman of the Drivers’ Association in 2010, not 2009 or earlier as implied. I have no idea what this role actually does.

Being chairman of the drivers' association isn’t glamorous, and if Rubens thinks about it, honestly, it’s not much more than a so-called honour for the oldest driver on the grid.  
  
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t take it seriously though. He performs his official duties efficiently and fairly, in a way that he hopes has made the other drivers see the position as something if not to take entirely seriously, at least not to mock.  
  
And then there are the unofficial duties.  
  
He’s been around in this circus for a damn long time now, so long that some people joke that he is, quite simply, the most consistent thing in this crazy sport, where nothing, nothing at all is certain, not even the number of the wheels on the car...  
  
So he knows how it works. He knows how teams treat drivers, and how drivers act towards teams, and all the hoops you have to jump through to keep racing another day. He knows both team orders and the freedom to race. He knows how it feels to be at the back of the grid, fighting through the pack, and at the front, with the clear air, and on the podium; champagne and anthems and emotions he can’t control. He knows too the heartbreak of not even seeing the chequered flag, week after week. He knows the pressure, god doesn’t he know the pressure, to be so young, and he knows the weight of the hopes of a nation too. He’s felt the heart-stopping horror of seeing friends carried away from the track, and the moments of terrifying clarity when your own car spins and the world slows into milliseconds before impact. He understands the mind-numbing boredom of the press conferences, and the pure thrill of being back behind the wheel. He knows that it’s (almost) all worth it.  
  
He knows how it all works, and whilst he won’t parade around forcing advice down everyone’s throats, he sees it as one of those unofficial duties of his to be there when anyone needs someone, to talk to, to cry on, to rant to, to offer guidance or just to listen. Especially to the younger drivers. Whilst it might not be quite the same as in his day (the kids these days all seemed to have been groomed so immaculately from so young, and it makes him feel so much older than he is sometimes), now and then he still sees the wide eyed look the rookies have, that raw determination and slightly reckless need to prove themselves that he recognises so well from the mirror all those years ago (back when the mirror showed him a bit more hair, too).  
  
So Rubens makes a point at the beginning of every season to tell the new drivers that if they ever need anyone, any time, to come to him. Usually they smile, slightly nervously, or overconfidently, and maybe he’ll see one or two throughout the season. He hopes that just the knowledge that he’s there if they need him helps in some way, even if they never take him up on the offer.  
  
*  
  
And then there’s Jaime. So young, all boyish playfulness and fearlessness, and eyes that _burn_. (Seeing him makes Rubens glad that he took the extra year to join up.) Thrown in mid-season, the deep end of the piranha pool. And what a time to start, when the recognition that this isn’t all glamour and glitz and gasoline has only just been jolted to the front of everyone’s minds, when the grid is one short (and Rubens fears that he’ll be a pallbearer again through the streets of his hometown).  
  
But Jaime doesn’t seem to let it all get to him. (Rubens remembers the look he was given when he’d kindly offered, as he always did, to be the one that Jaime could turn to – it was slightly disbelieving, confused, _why would I need that?_ But he’d thanked Rubens all the same.) In that very first race he finishes in front of his teammate. How much must that mean to the bright-eyed Spaniard? And in the next one too. But then it goes downhill rather.  
  
*

There’s a knock on Rubens’ door just as he’s about to go to bed, only the bedside light on and in his underwear and a tshirt. He thinks twice about answering – it’s been a long weekend (aren’t they all?) and he just wants to go to sleep, but the knock comes again.  
  
He opens his door to Jaime, in absurdly tight jeans and a fashionably ill-fitting tshirt with some garish design on.  
  
The young driver stares for a half-moment, bright eyes troubled, then rubs his hand up through his messy quiff of hair and looks down.  
  
“Jaime? What are you doing here?”  
  
“You said if...” He looks up, slightly helplessly, and so, so young.  
  
Rubens steps back, opening a path past him into his room. “Come in, there’s no point in standing around in the corridor.”  
  
Jaime follows him in, looking more self-conscious than Rubens has ever seen him, and flops down into an armchair whilst Rubens shuts the door behind him and finds the light switches (there’s something slightly uncomfortable about the scrutiny of the brighter light when he’s dressed for bed but still with company, but it doesn’t seem quite appropriate to have them so low when, well, he’s dressed for bed and with company...).  
  
Jaime’s taken the only chair, so he sits on the end of the bed.  
  
And he waits.  
  
“I do not know what happened,” is the sentence that breaks the silence.  
  
“You crashed,” Rubens replies matter-of-factly, and he’s met with an expression of shock, of offence, of confusion, of how does that help?  
  
“What?” he says, as if he’s misheard.  
  
“You crashed,” Rubens repeats. “It happens.”  
  
“But...”  
  
Rubens knows that that sentence was never going to be continued, let alone finished.  
  
“You pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and go back to the garage. You go through the data, learn what you can learn, about the car, about your driving, about how you can improve, and you go from there. You don’t dwell. You can’t, not in this sport.”  
  
Jaime stares for a moment, and then looks down.  
  
“It was my fault though.”  
  
“Quite possibly,” Rubens agrees. “Learn from it.”  
  
Jaime throws himself back in his chair in frustration.  
  
“I do not know why I came, I knew you would not get it.” He stands up, starts to leave, but the typically rookie need to explain overrides it first. “You just, you do not. It is mid-season, they are all expecting things, I have to do better than Bourdais or I will be out as well, and I have messed up already, and...” His hand runs through his quiff again. “You just do not get it! How could you?”  
  
Jaime hasn’t left yet though. He seems like he’s waiting for the answer that confirms his rant; that no, Rubens does not, and cannot “get it”.  
  
But Rubens isn’t fazed. “Do you know how old I was when I started in F1?” he asks, patiently.  
  
Jaime shakes his head, still not leaving.  
  
“Twenty. And I was meant to start the year before.” He looks up at Jaime. “I understand better than you think.”  
  
He’s just staring at Rubens now.  
  
“How do you deal with... everything?” he asks, his voice smaller and his accent seemingly thicker, and then perches back on the very edge of the armchair.  
  
Rubens smiles. “There is no sure fire way, but,” he shrugs again “you learn...”  
  
*  
  
Jaime smiles before he leaves (however much later that is), an honest, thankful smile, and it makes Rubens feel like he’s done his job, and done it well. And he laughs to himself when he realises that, for that entire conversation, he was without his trousers...  
  
***  
  
In Italy, it’s clear that Jaime does his damnedest (despite starting from the pitlane), but Rubens hears it was the gearbox this time. But he can’t dwell on it, not when he’s just bagged his second win of the season, and there’s celebrating to be done.  
  
*  
  
Rubens doesn’t _stagger_ back from his party – he’s old enough to know when overindulgence really is too much – but he’s merry and happy and singing to himself as he exits the lift and heads towards his room in that dead time of night when no one else is around.  
  
Almost no one else.  
  
He stops his singing when he sees Jaime outside his hotel room door, the disappointment still radiating from him.  
  
He lets him in without a second thought.  
  
“This one wasn’t your fault,” Rubens says, when they’re both sitting down. “Some things you can’t control. Learn to take the highs with the lows. You’ll be fine.”  
  
When Jaime shakes his head in disbelief, Rubens tells him about 1997, and how 1998 was nearly as bad, listing his accidents, mistakes, mechanical failures, and unfortunate circumstances, and he manages to make Jaime laugh. Somehow they start talking about nothing in particular (he probably talks too much, to be honest, the last of the night’s champagne still making the world a little fuzzy at the edges and his mouth run) but Jaime sticks around until it’s far later than either of them realised. (Maybe he can blame the champagne too for how he notices the freckles that are scattered across Jaime’s cheeks, the way his tongue peeks out between his teeth when he laughs sometimes, and the way he smiles slightly more on one side of his face...)  
  
When Jaime departs this time he gives Rubens a small, almost shy smile (that’s at odds with the _something else_ behind his eyes), and hovers on the threshold for a moment as if he has something else to say. He doesn’t say it though, just _Goodnight Rubens_ in that lilting accent of his, with a soft and slightly strange tone that makes the older driver feel something that he can’t quite pinpoint (but definitely isn’t just from the alcohol...).  
  
***  
  
In Singapore, it’s brake problems, and whilst Jaime looks incredibly frustrated, later on Rubens spots him going through the data with his engineers, and the determination is back in those incredible eyes. It makes him feel proud in a way he doesn’t quite expect (and something else he refuses to think about). _Spending too much time with the boy,_ he chides himself.  
  
***  
  
When Jaime knocks on Rubens’ door in Japan, it’s an insistent hammering, and when Rubens opens it he bursts past almost immediately, paces a couple of times, and then collapses onto the little sofa. Sometimes it takes a while for things to sink in, and only here, in the safety of Rubens’ hotel room, does he show quite how much his crash has shaken him up.  
  
Rubens sits next to him, and puts his arm gently around his shoulders. Jaime leans in, tucking himself close.  
  
“It’s ok, I’m here,” Rubens murmurs, like he’s talking to a child, stroking the back of Jaime’s head and neck and holding him close. “You’re ok.”  
  
He stops when Jaime shivers, and looks up with shining eyes filled with something that Rubens can’t deny he sees (no matter how much he wishes he could). He finds he can’t look away.  
  
He should stop it as soon as it starts, when Jaime’s lips press softly against his. He certainly shouldn’t even consider returning it. But _consider_ is the wrong word, because reason doesn’t seem to have a say in this, and he’s kissing back, his senses full of the taste, the touch, the smell of Jaime, overwhelming him almost completely, making him feel younger and brighter, wanted and _alive,_ and he doesn’t want it to stop.  
  
_It has to stop._  
  
“Jaime, no.” He lets go, his hands hovering in the air as if in surrender.  
  
“Why?” His voice is low, sincere and petulant all wrapped up in his gorgeous Spanish accent (and when was that a word he’d come to associate with the boy?). “I want you.”  
  
“This is a terrible idea... You’re just... it’s been a long day...” Whether or not Rubens believes his own words, it’s obvious Jaime doesn’t.  
  
“I _love_ you.”  
  
“No you don’t.” After all, what could Jaime, all tanned skin, dazzling eyes, and soft pouts, see in him, apart from misguided gratitude and an outlet for the day’s adrenaline rush?  
  
“Do not, do not tell me you _understand_ and brush me off.” Jaime sits up, pulls back, runs his hand through his hair like he always does. “Because if you understand, you will know I mean it.”  
  
Rubens shakes his head. _Things move faster when you’re young,_ he remembers. Weeks can feel like months, feelings can blindside you in days. He understands, but there’s no point in trying to explain. He knows that too.  
  
Jaime’s expression twists, and he pulls away abruptly, standing up and heading straight for the door.  
  
“Jaime,” Rubens calls. He needs to say something; he can’t leave it like this. “I’ll still be here for you.”  
  
Jaime looks back. “Not how I want.”

Rubens finds that the sound of the door shutting hurts far more than it has any right to.  
  
_Maybe when you got older, you just didn’t notice these things sneaking up on you._  
  
***  
  
“Nice going kid, best result of your season.” Rubens looks genuinely pleased for him when he claps Jaime on the shoulder, and pulls him close for a brief half hug. It should be awkward, but it isn’t.  
  
Jaime looks surprised, that after what happened in Japan, and in the madness not only of his home grand prix but of his team’s and teammate’s championship wins, Rubens has still paid enough attention to notice that, and even bothered to congratulate him for it (it’s only fourteenth place, after all). It makes Jaime wonder (but it doesn’t make him hope).  
  
But yes, it _was_ his best result, and he can’t help but grin his reply, a blinding flash of perfect teeth and sparkling eyes.  
  
“Told you you’d be fine!” Rubens says, with a slightly softer fond smile than he would usually use, and that makes Jaime wonder too.  
  
And then Rubens is whisked away, back into the whirlwind.  
  
*  
  
In Abu Dhabi, Rubens opens his door again to Jaime. But this time, he doesn’t look uncertain, worried, or any of those other things that Rubens has come to expect.  
  
“I just wanted to apologise,” he says, sounding more mature than Rubens has ever heard from him, and it surprises him, quite how much Jaime’s grown up in just these past few weeks. “I took up far too much of your time, and... I am sorry about what happened at Suzuka.”  
  
“You don’t need to apologise, it’s what I’m here for,” Rubens answers. “And as for Japan...” he continues, though the words come out a little oddly, “I don’t think that was something you need to apologise for either.” Jaime looks at him strangely, and Rubens finds _he’s_ suffering from that irritating need to explain (everything that’s churned through his head the past few weeks and that he couldn’t shut out no matter how much he tried), attempting to say everything he needs to say without admitting it out loud, all in the middle of a hotel corridor.  
  
He takes a breath, steadies his words. “Do you want to come in? You can, if you want. Only if you still want...”  
  
It’s a searching look that Rubens receives, but it ends with what must be his favourite of all Jaime’s smiles, that crinkles his eyes and lights up his face, a mixture of boyish hope and something _much_ more adult.  
  
Rubens offers a hand, and Jaime takes it, as if it isn’t the first time, and as if Rubens’ palm isn’t cold and slightly damp from sudden nerves.  
  
“I mean this,” Rubens says.  
  
He steps back, and Jaime follows him inside.  
  
***  
  
**January 2012**  
  
Jaime opens the door of his Barcelona apartment in his pyjama bottoms, wondering who could be turning up at this time of night.  
  
He probably shouldn’t grin when he sees who it is, considering the circumstances, but he does anyway. He can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it.  
  
“I was on my way home from the factory, and I thought I’d drop in...” Rubens looks slightly uncertain about the whole situation – they’ve never seen each other in the off season like this before.  
  
“I hope you’re not here to offer me advice,” Jaime says, with a wry smile.  
  
“I could do with some myself, to be honest,” Rubens shrugs in reply. “But no, that’s not why I’m here.” He smiles slightly awkwardly.  
  
They’re not the rookie and the veteran anymore. Jaime isn’t a teenager, the boyish charm of over two seasons ago having developed into effortless good looks, whilst Rubens is convinced he’s just got shorter and stockier (as well as having lost even more hair). They’re not even drivers now. For once, they’re in the same position. And tonight, it’s Rubens hesitating on the threshold.  
  
“You’d better come in then,” Jaime says, and he holds out his hand. Rubens takes it, lacing their fingers together easily, as if this isn’t the last time.  
  
Two years was more than he could ever have hoped for, and he’ll never regret a second of it.  
  
***


End file.
